TITLE: Deep Red

RATING: M for language, violence, and adult situations.

GENRE: Thriller/Action

DISCLAIMER: It's Wes Craven's world, developed from Carl Ellsworth's script and characters; I'm just playing in it. This story was inspired by comments made by Wes Craven during an an interview in which questions regarding the possibility of a Red Eye sequel were raised, as well as many things he said during the film commentary itself on the DVD. In fact, I have to admit that I drew shamelessly from the commentary for ideas at certain points. This is my sequel.

My apologies in advance to both Wes Craven and the late Philip K. Dick. Read on, and you'll see why, eventually. I've been reading a lot of Red Eye fanfiction here on since seeing it for the first time just a few weeks ago; if there is any resemblance to anyone else's work here, it's entirely unintentional.

My thanks goes out to NicolinaN, since it was reading her wonderful works that actually inspired me to get off my duff and start this thing. Punctuator, Chocobo Goddess, and Kaikamahine Mai Hawai'i also get props for being excellent writers.

EDIT 6/7/08: I've re-written a lot of the first chapter to reflect some of the character developments that are going on with Jackson Rippner in the fifth and sixth chapters. I'd like to thank everyone for all your wonderful reviews so far!

"The Empire never ended."

--Philip K. Dick, VALIS.

Chapter 1: Treer.

Lisa Reisert was a loner; and it was that aspect of her existence that Jackson Rippner had found to be so intriguing about her when his initial surveillance had begun. She went through the same routine, day in, day out, with little variation - competent, efficient, and insular. She was polite, engaging, and accommodating with her customers at the hotel, but seemed to have little interaction with anyone outside of her job; her father being the sole exception, of course. Her "social life," such as it was, would have shamed a nun.

Jackson rarely allowed himself to focus on anything else but the job at hand. His life literally depended on being very, very good at what he did; one slip-up, one misstep, would put him in the same position as many others who had gone before him in his line of work - dead. all was said and done, his superiors saw him as an expendable resource; one that could and would easily disposed of and replaced should he fail them for any reason.

Still, he'd watched her for far longer than he'd originally intended to. Much longer than he would have needed to in order to find out what the best form of leverage would have been in order to get her to play her part in the assassination of Charles Keefe, in fact - his simple curiosity having deepened into something much more...distracting. With some distance between them, it had been easy to inwardly chide himself for getting attached to a woman that he would only be employing as a pawn in one assassination job, before abandoning her to whatever fate her coerced participation would have earned her.

But then Lisa's grandmother had passed away. She'd flown to Dallas for the funeral, and he'd been forced into a much different course of action than he'd originally planned. The short flirtation that he'd allowed himself to engage in with her before the flight had effectively sealed his doom.

Once he'd had his game face on, he'd been all business - but even then, it seemed that deep down in his psyche, a tiny spark of hope within him had remained that she might still accept him somehow. Of course, he hadn't actually been consciously aware of this fact until he'd found himself bleeding out from two bullet holes in his body on the floor of her father's house. The realization of the true nature of eight weeks of obsession had struck him the moment he'd locked eyes with her that one final time, before he'd passed out from blood loss and the pain of his wounds.

How fucking clichéd is that? he wondered, disgusted at the way he'd let his own feelings throw him off balance.

In hindsight, he knew he should have expected such an adverse reaction on her part, considering what he'd been trying to get her to do. However, her open revulsion for the nature of the plot he'd tried to rope her into - and for him, once he'd revealed his true colors - had crushed that faint, subliminal spark like a dying ember in an open downpour.

Even worse, her stubborn attempts to stall him had actually frightened him in a way he couldn't even begin to explain, even to himself. This, combined with the knowledge that they were going to kill him if he failed had caused him to lash out against her in ways that he'd hoped he wouldn't have to do when she'd just seemed like a sweet, meek, wallflower-insomniac who'd shut herself off from the rest of the world for no outwardly discernible reason.

But to his utter dismay, the self-described "24/7 people-pleaser" had thwarted him at almost every turn. Even when she'd become a crying mess under the pressure he was putting on her, she'd managed to find her own leverage against him. But it had been her revulsion that had ultimately undone him; she'd not only balked against him, she'd rejected him on a purely personal, visceral level – the woman that he'd watched, wondered about, fixated on, and followed for weeks. He saw himself as she'd seen him – cold, soulless, snide, and despicable – every time he'd looked into her eyes. And he'd lost control. He'd utterly lost control – of her, of himself, of the job, everything. He'd paid for that loss of control with two bullet wounds, a puncture wound in his leg from her shoe, several bruises, some minor fractures, a hole in his windpipe, and the complete failure of his mission. His life - or what had passed for a life - was now in utter ruins.

Jackson's rage had cooled in the hours since she'd defeated him, if only a little. He knew he hadn't been thinking straight when he'd gone to her father's house, instead of just melting away into the crowd the way he knew he should have done - the way he would have done, if he'd kept his wits about him. But no; he'd followed her back under the pretense of finishing the job, and finishing her off so she couldn't talk to the authorities about the unwilling role she'd played in it. But really he'd wanted...what? To see her bleed and beg? To reject her in turn? To see her hurt and broken? All of the above?

He had to admit that he couldn't help but feel a little admiration for Lisa as well, seeing as how she'd foiled him so completely. He knew he'd underestimated her, and that mistake had cost him everything. But it went beyond that, beyond simple intelligence and the ability to think on her feet despite everything he'd put her through. If she'd only put her irritating self-righteousness aside, Jackson was fairly confident that Lisa could have had a future in the business - which was more than he could say for himself at the present moment.

Now all he had left to feel was dread, though he tried his best not to let it show.

He'd already been moved once, out of the hospital where he'd originally been taken and treated. Whoever had done it had posted guards over him in his new location; Jackson wasn't sure, but he'd pegged them as FBI agents, or perhaps CIA. It didn't matter. Sooner or later, his superiors would get someone past them who would make sure he wouldn't be even more of a liability than he'd already become. They always did. In fact, he was surprised that it hadn't happened yet.

He wondered they meant to let him wallow in his defeat for a while before taking him out, or even if they were giving him a chance to off himself first. Some of his fellow operatives who'd disgraced themselves as badly as he had just done had taken that opportunity when it had been offered to them. All things considered, it would probably be a better way out than what they had planned for him.

Fuck that, Jackson thought. He didn't know if he'd ever get a chance to escape in his present state...but if he did, he was going to take it.

The moment of truth came nearly three days into his recovery after the incident. Jackson had been hovering on the edge of sleep and in a haze of painkillers when he received a visitor. He heard the man's voice first – deep, almost sepulchral – addressing the guard in the hallway.

"He's not supposed to have any visitors. HQ was very clear on this - " the guard protested.

"It's all right, I have clearance. You won't be reprimanded." the deep voice rumbled.

Jackson smirked, picturing a Jedi mind-trick handwave accompanying the newcomer's assurances. Here it comes, he thought. At least he was drugged. Maybe it wouldn't be so bad that way...

Then the visitor entered his room – a tall, imposing black man who was sharply-dressed in an expensive suit and tie. He looked down at Jackson with a small, almost sympathetic half-smile, and sat down in a nearby chair.

And Jackson knew. The stranger's demeanor, his mannerisms, that half-pitying look, everything about him practically screamed that he was a fellow Manager.

"Nice job with that guy in the hall," Jackson rasped through his bandages. His voice had improved over the last few days, but only a little.

The man glanced back at the door – which was still open, so the guard could monitor all of the proceedings - and shrugged. Then he pulled out a wallet, flipping it open and displaying his badge.

"Mr. Rippner, my name is Jacob Treer, and I'm here on behalf of the Office of Homeland Security."

Sure enough, it was all there in his I.D. - except that Jackson didn't believe a word of it. He figured that his disbelief must have shown on his face, because that half-smile was suddenly back; only Treer looked amused this time, rather than sympathetic.

"I'll be frank with you, Mr. Rippner – we have no interest in you personally. We would like to know who put you up to the attempted assassination of Charles Keefe, and we're willing to make you a deal."

Jackson's mind spun as he tried to fathom the reason for this deception. Were they trying to see if he would talk to the authorities? To find out if he already had talked? The truly ironic thing was, if this guy had been a real Agent of Homeland Security, Jackson would have jumped all over any prospective deals thrown his way - even if he knew it would only be delaying the inevitable. His employers would get him sooner or later.

But as he sat there staring back at the man in the chair across from him, Jackson wondered – why hadn't there been any legitimate attempts to question him up to this point? The authorities here, whoever they were, had just let him lie in bed for almost three days. An orderly came in to check on him, change the dressings on his wounds, and administer medication every now and then, but that was it. What was going on here?

Never mind, Jackson thought. He wasn't telling this guy anything. He wasn't going to give a fellow Manager the pleasure of thinking him duped, of seeing him beg for protection from the supposed G-Man in exchange for whatever scant information he could provide. He sat up as much as his wounds and the restraints that they'd put him in would allow, and put on the most infuriating grin he could manage.

Fuck you, he thought, sincerely hoping that Treer could read it in his eyes, and that the insolence was emanating from him in searingly palpable, blistering waves through all of the meds they'd given him.

Treer just smiled back in return, and Jackson knew that his instincts had been right. The Manager stood

.

"I can see this is not a good time, Mr. Rippner. We'll be in touch." He stood, and left the room. That half-smile had never left his face.

FUCK! Jackson thought as he lay back in bed. He'd enjoyed casting his defiance in Treer's teeth, but he knew was screwed. If they'd already gotten a Manager into where he was, he figured that he could probably count the remaining span of his life in hours.

...

Jacob Treer exited the building and made his way around the block to a parking lot a short ways away, where an SUV was parked, and got in.

"Did he take the deal?" the man asked in the driver's seat asked. The hood of his sweatshirt was still drawn up, and for good reason. Treer knew that it wouldn't have done very well for his companion to be recognized, as he and his family were still supposed to be embarking upon a tour of America's coastal cities in order to assess their level of security.

"No, but he just told me everything we need to know – and he doesn't even know it yet," Treer responded. He sighed, almost sadly.

"Damn it - It didn't have to be this way," Treer's companion lamented.

"Tell me about it," Treer commiserated. "Look – why don't you take Lydia and the kids and disappear for a few days? Tell the press that the attack put things a little bit behind schedule. No one would blame you at this point --"

"I can't do that. This attack just proves how unstable things are. I can't just run and hide – it would send the wrong kind of message."

Treer nodded. He had a feeling that his friend of over twenty years would say something like that. And even with the danger that he knew was still lurking just over the horizon, he knew Charles Keefe too well to try and dissuade him from his choice of action.

"Is Lisa Reisert's life in danger? She was practically a friend of the family even before this mess," Keefe asked.

"Count on it," Treer answered grimly.

"Then I want protection for her and her father - around the clock," Keefe said. "Can we spare enough people for that?"

"If you don't mind, I have a better idea," Treer stated, as Keefe started the vehicle and made for the highway. "If Miss Reisert handled that situation half as well as I've heard, why don't we bring her into the fold?"

"Do you really think she'll be up to it, after all she's been through?"

"We could give her some basic training in self-defense, and see if she wants to go any further from there," Treer said.

"Okay, let's pitch it to her, then – but let's leave up to her. I don't want this stupid feud to ruin any more lives," Keefe responded.